Strip
by piperholmes
Summary: This had become the routine. A new mother. A new father. A new baby. Of course this meant change. It meant adjustment. It meant Tom Branson kept eyes forward as they both dressed bed. How does love, romance, and a new baby mix? Rock the AU challenge!
1. Chapter 1

**Strip**

**By: piperholmes**

**A/N: So I have really debated with myself over whether to post this or not, because I'm not really a "M-Rated" writer. There are so many talented smut writers here (you know who you are, you naughty, wonderful writers!) and I don't feel very versed in writing such things, but I have decided to tell, perhaps, a different type of smut. (Not sure that makes sense) And I really wanted to contribute to the Rock the AU February month challenge and add to the M-Rated stories for S/T. So here it is, my contribution to the soft-core side of S/T…LOL!**

**Special thanks to Yankee Countess for her efforts to keep S/T going and putting together the Rock the AU in the first place!**

**Unbeta'd**

* * *

_Prologue_

She watched dejectedly, fighting her tears, her baby suckling greedily at her breast, as Tom sheepishly excused himself to the washroom.

It had been a disaster.

A complete and total disaster.

She sniffled, startling the feeding baby, and wiped angrily at her eyes. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Not between them. It had always been so good, so perfect. It was a side of their marriage that had never suffered.

And she had no idea how to fix it.

* * *

_Part 1: Body, remember_

He tried not to stare.

This had become the routine. A new mother. A new father. A new baby. Of course this meant change. It meant adjustment. It meant Tom Branson kept eyes forward as they both dressed bed.

Or he tried to.

Instead he casually cast his eyes towards her, fleeting glimpses as she peeled away her robe. He wasn't at all enamored by her long fingers working to release the button. He didn't mind the way her chest rose and fell with a deep breath as the fabric slid away. He wasn't at all affected by the delicate scent, her scent, which wafted about them as more of her freshly bathed skin was revealed. He wasn't bothered in the least by way the nightgown fell between her full, round breasts. He knew the warmth of her soft skin, the small sigh that would escaper her plump, luscious lips, the power of her touch as she clung to him… He barely suppressed a grown.

He was definitely staring.

To his embarrassment, and clearly to hers as well, their blue eyes met.

He awkwardly cleared his throat, ignoring the burning of his skin, cursing his fair coloring, knowing his exposed chest was pinking.

"New nightgown?" he squeaked out, trying to hide, grateful that she didn't laugh.

She merely shook her head, giving him an odd look.

"Oh," he answered stupidly. Of course it wasn't a new nightgown. It was a familiar, comforting nightgown she had worn as her pregnancy progressed, which she still preferred as her three-month post baby body was continuing it's long journey to return to its pre-motherhood state.

She had lost a fair bit of her pregnancy weight, but still her body bore the signs of the months of growth and stretching.

She was…well, curvier; curvier hips, breasts, stomach, thighs…

Damn it. He was staring again.

Sybil's brow lowered in concern as he made no excuse; rather he scrambled to inelegantly tug his own nightshirt on.

He angrily shook his head. He wasn't a rake. He could control his body. He wanted his wife, nothing wrong with that, but he wasn't some sex crazed man who had to force himself on his wife. It didn't matter to Tom how long he had to go without, he didn't agree with idea that a wife was a man's property. He definitely knew Sybil didn't agree with that idea. They were progressive.

But oh how he wanted to be with her.

He thought it had been bad, waiting all those years for her to say yes. However, those lonely nights spent with an idea, a construct, urging him forward to his release, were nothing compared to the long nights spent sleeping beside her, knowing what they had experience together, memories playing out in his mind, images of her above him, beneath him, crying out, caressing him, teasing him, loving him.

"Tom?"

His eyes flew to her, realizing she had already crawled into bed and was now looking at him expectantly. "Is everything alright?" she pressed, concerned. "You've been acting a little odd this evening."

"Long day," he grumbled, and scrambled in next to her.

As had become routine, he turned the light off, wiggled down into the bed, then allowed her to snuggle close to him. They would talk, but almost always she would drift off quickly, with him not far behind. The baby would wake up once or twice during the night to be fed, then be up before the sun demanding attention. It was a level of exhaustion neither thought possible to live with.

Sybil bore the worst of it. While he didn't normally sleep through the baby waking at night, often getting up to get the baby out of the bassinet and bring her to the bed, he would fall back to sleep rather easily leaving Sybil to feed, usually change the baby, and get her back to bed. On occasion, those nights when her own exhaustion was too great, she would nudge him back awake and hand him the well-fed infant, and roll back over, leaving him with those responsibilities, but it wasn't often. She had argued with him, pointing out that he had a full day of work as estate manager while she would have the opportunity to nap during the day.

Which he knew she wasn't really taking advantage of.

Free time was spent trying to get their lives back on track. He hated working for Lord Grantham again, his only consolation as the estate manager was to try and work in some of his socialist ideals into the way things worked, but they both knew they couldn't stay here. He couldn't keep doing this, maintaining the status quo. She had taken over the responsibility to and find their new life. So she wrote letter after letter, inquiring after positions with papers, politicians, hospitals, colleges, anywhere that could serve their desire to work, to change, and to challenge them.

"I love you," he whispered, surprised when she lifted her head from his chest, having assumed she was asleep. "So completely and fully," he confessed, her moonlit silhouette filling his vision.

"There _is_ something going on," she accused gently, her voice a harsh whisper.

It wasn't that such declarations were a rarity, rather she knew him, she knew his voice, and knew when he needed her.

"It's nothing my love," he assured, tucking her hair behind her ear.

"Tom," she pushed sternly, unconvinced.

"I'm fine," he soothed, keeping his tone light, playful.

The darkness made it difficult to make out her features, but he could hear her frown. He definitely felt her shift away from him, and watched as she rolled away, feeling a whoosh of cold air as her body left his.

"Sybil," he tried, now facing her back, as he sat up and reached for her.

She shrugged off his hand, and drew further away.

Stubborn woman.

"Sybil," he said again, "It's really nothing."

She whirled to face him. "Then why won't you tell me?" she fired back. "Why keep it from me? Why keep anything from me?"

He faltered. She'd caught him.

With a heavy sigh, he acquiesced. Sensing his surrender she too sat up, her round eyes shining in the dark as they stared at him.

"It's difficult to admit to…what I mean is…I don't expect you to do anything about it," he began badly. "Just don't feel pressured. I'm not asking…I'm not saying you have to do or not do something—"

"Just tell me Tom," she interrupted.

"I miss you," he blurted.

He could see her face contort with confusion. "What?"

"I miss _being_ with you, making love to you," he clarified.

Her eyes lowered and a small "Oh" emitted from her.

"It's jus' we haven't been together like that since before the baby was born, and, well, I miss it, I miss being with you," he stumbled through, feelings of guilt warring with feelings of relief at being able to talk about it.

She said nothing, and his own eyes fell to his lap. The silence burned his ears, pleading for him to fill it.

"I'm sorry," he rushed. "You must think me an ogre. I know how tired you are, how much you've been through the last few months. I know you probably aren't interested in even discuss—"

For the second time that night she cut him off, only this time by pressing her lips tightly to his. His body responded immediately, his lips meeting hers, sucking gently against each other, pulling and battling. The kiss deepened, her tongue teasing his lips, demanding entry, entry he was only too ready to grant. They fought for dominance, desperately drinking each other up. They had kissed since the baby; prolonged moments of romance and delights, but those had ended chastely snuggled together. This was not that kind of kiss, this was a blatant invitation.

A small protest arose in his mind, shouting at him as if through water, he tried to ignore it, but knew he wasn't that kind of man.

He pushed her away gently, even as his body screamed at him.

Breathing heavily, pleading with her to put him out of his misery one way or another, he pressed, "Darling, are you sure?"

Her now swollen lips spread into the wicked grin he so loved. "I've missed you too," she answered huskily, "I've missed being with you."

His own lips spread into a wolfish grin. That was all he needed to hear, feeling the luckiest man in the world as he grabbed for his wife.

**To be continued**

**Thanks for reading!**

P.S. We'll get to the M-rated stuff, I promise ;)


	2. Chapter 2

**Strip**

**By: piperholmes**

**A/N: Sorry for the slow update, and the slow response to reviews. I jammed my finger up pretty good on Monday playing volleyball, and it is a much slower process typing while ones fingers is in a splint! But I will respond because I am very appreciative of the support for this story. Thank you!**

* * *

_Part 2: not only how much you were loved_

Sybil's eyes were drooping.

She's known exhaustion. She was nurse, a nurse who had served during the Great War. She knew hard work and long hours. But this wasn't exhaustion; it was the realization of how much, or rather how little sleep her body could get and still function enough to survive. It was every cry that prompted her heart to beat a little faster, every sniffle that sent her running, every time she had to rest her hand against the tiny belly to feel it rise and fall, it was the fear that she was giving enough milk, the stress of the unknown—was the baby warm enough, too hot, tired, scared, sick, in pain, breathing, hungry, wet, unhappy. It was the moments when her tears mixed with her daughters; both lost in this new world, this new life.

Being at Downton had done very little to alleviate the stresses of motherhood. Being nearly nine months pregnant and terrified for her husband's life, panicked, and unsure made her childhood home seem safer, welcoming, perhaps even the answer. Sybil had accepted her decision, desperation a powerful motivator, and together she and Tom had focused on bringing their child safely into the world.

But Sybil knew the dangers of relying too long on a temporary fix. She knew too well how easy it was to be fooled by the healing wounds, to want to believe so completely that everything is well that it becomes easy to ignore the festering just beneath the scab.

All the old heartaches were beginning to peak through the post-baby euphoria—the glares, the rolled eyes, the drowning, the snide comments that are meant to hurt yet said with such beauty, the unchanging and damning.

This wasn't what she had planned.

She longed for her pillow, her head to his chest, her eyes finally closing in a moment of relief.

She wanted to sleep again.

She had felt his eyes on her, but in this new version of herself she had become distracted, always meaning to speak with him, meaning to touch him, but somehow it was always pushed aside, forgotten.

"I miss you," he had confessed, and her body had reacted. Her need to feel whole again, to feel in control, to smooth the sadness in his voice, taking over and propelling her forward.

His lips.

How she loved his lips.

She hadn't lied. She did miss him, she missed being with him, she just hadn't realized it until this moment.

Their kiss deepened, their hands wandering. She felt him maneuvering them and reveled in the warmth of his body so tightly pressed to hers, his weight becoming her weight as she slid beneath him.

"Sybil," he whispered, and she felt loved, worshipped.

His fingers danced over the fabric of her nightdress, teasing the tie that allowed her child to easily eat at night, and she giggled, as if this were a new experience.

But she supposed it was.

Her fingers pushed through his hair as his teeth tugged at the loops at her throat until the fabric fell open and his lips were leaving small wet kisses upon each stretch of newly revealed skin across her chest.

There was some uncertainty. She could tell. It was in the way he kept a bit away from her, the way he hesitated just before each touch, the way his eyes continued to dart to her face.

His hand moved to cup her exposed breast, hovering slightly before his rough skin met her soft pink flesh.

She winced and his hand shot back quickly.

"Sorry—"

"It's alright—"

They spoke over each other, both eager to assure and be assured.

They shared a small smile.

"Should I not?" he asked, trailing off, unsure of how to specifically ask if he should or should not touch her breasts.

Sybil frowned, trying to decide if the sensation had in fact been painful or just a bit intense.

"Be gentle," she prompted finally.

Again she could see him pause; hesitate, before tentatively reaching for her now curvier breast, his thumb glancing across her nipple, gently, delicately.

She moaned softly at the contact, mindful of the sleeping infant across the room. She arched as his mouth followed the path of his thumb, just as tenderly.

"Tom," she breathed, her own fingers growing bold, gripping and grabbing at him.

She suddenly froze. She felt it, felt the tingling, the warmth, the swelling.

"What? What's wrong?" Tom pleaded, before jerking back. He too felt it.

"Oh," he said stupidly, pulling his now damp hand back. "I didn't…I didn't realize that could happen."

Sybil shuffled away from him, cheeks burning, using her nightdress to try and catch some of the leaking milk. "I didn't either," she answered. "I mean, I didn't expect you touching them to cause my milk to…to come."

Tom helped her sit up and they watched each other awkwardly as she quickly retied her dress, ignoring the darkening spots growing on the front.

"Sorry," she mumbled, feeling unsure what to do now that her breasts were growing hard with milk.

He shifted to sit up next to her. "Don't apologize," he insisted. "It isn't something to be sorry for."

His voice was strong, but she heard uncertainty from him as well.

"Still, it's not every day that I…" she stumbled, searching for the most appropriate word, "leak on my husband.

They stared at each other, wide eyed, before they both broke; a snort of laughter, a giggle, tension breaking in the ridiculousness of it, putting them both at ease.

"I don't suppose…" he began, a smile still wide on his face, as she used the corner of a cloth kept on the night table to wipe his hand clean of milk. "I don't suppose you'd want to continue?"

Sybil's eyes widened slightly. "You're not put off by this?"

Tom raised an eyebrow in that impish way she loved. "My love, you seriously underestimate how badly I want you. And feeding our daughter is a part of you. I just have to accept that these," he motioned vaguely towards her breasts, "belong to her right now."

Sybil again had to laugh at that. And Tom answered with his own scoff. Two pairs of blue eyes studied each other, sharing secrets. She was feeling far from appealing, but if the hungry look he pinned her with was any indication to his feelings she had to assume he didn't share her beliefs.

"Probably best to stay clear of them for the time being," she agreed, drawing closer to him, linking her fingers with his, tugging him towards her.

"Yes milady," he answered, placing a sweet, smiling kiss against her lips.

She smirked. "Now, where were we?"

**To be continued…**

**Thanks for reading!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Strip**

**By: piperholmes**

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews for this story. It has been overwhelming. I appreciate everyone sticking with it so far. Your respond to this story has been wonderful and I am so grateful. As usual, this is unbeta'd. I hope the glaring typos (which I'm sure exist) aren't too distracting!**

* * *

_Part 3: __not only the beds where you lay_

Tom's lips pressed against the skin of her neck before he buried his face into her hair, breathing deeply.

He felt her hands glide along his arms, tickling as her fingers brushed lightly.

He shivered, the hairs on his arms standing up. She knew he hated being teased, hated the feeling of her ghosting across his body, and he was sure she was doing it on purpose.

"Quit," he laughed, pulling back to look at her.

Her smile was innocent. "Quit? Why I thought you wanted this?"

He loved her cheek. "You know what I mean," he accused as his own fingers slowly walked down her body. "If you don't stop I'll be forced to do something drastic."

"You wouldn't."

"Wouldn't I?" he demanded, doing his best to keep his face serious as his fingers grew closer and closer to her knee, threatening to press the skin underneath where she was the most ticklish.

She laughed, suddenly shifting her legs to wrap around him, capturing him.

Playtime was over.

His eyes fluttered shut as her lower body ground against him. Tom's hands had to leave her body to keep him from collapsing against her. His body took over, thrusting slowly against her as he grew harder.

Her own hands moved up his body, all teasing gone, pressing hard against his back, pushing his night shirt higher, her intentions clear.

Tom shifted enough to allow her to strip him of his vest. Sybil immediately pulled him down to her, to her eager lips. He groaned, overwhelmed by the feeling of her tongue battling with his, each diving deeper, a precursor to what was to come.

And still they moved.

Tom's hips rolled, pressing hard against her, begging for more. Her breath burning his cheek, her fingers stroking through his hair, her legs clinging to him, brought a desperate whimper from his throat, and still he wanted more.

His mouth moved from her lips, wildly scavenging for every taste of her, lingering on her shoulder, just by her neck. He smiled against her when he heard her answering gasp, felt her fingers tighten and fist in his hair. He knew she was sensitive there and he loved to exploit that knowledge.

Sybil responded in kind, her lips seeking out his jaw as she kissed her way towards his ear, licking and biting, before taking his earlobe into her mouth and sucking gently.

"Sybil," he moaned, longing to go slow, and make a sweet reunion. But his hands were excited, desperate, and one moved to the hem of her night dress pulling and tugging it up higher and higher.

Tom had to stop, had to palm the white flesh of her thigh, his warmed hand against her cool skin, before moving to push her night gown higher.

Lost in his haze of desire he was surprised to feel her hand against his, stopping his progression.

"Sybil?" he whispered, wishing his voice didn't sound quite so harsh.

"It's alright," she assured, her own voice husky. "Just…let's just leave it down some, alright?"

Tom blinked, and blinked again. "Sybil, if you don't want—"

"I want Tom, just please let's not worry about my night clothes," she insisted, her cheeks pinking from embarrassment.

He couldn't let it go, despite how readily his body was willing to not worry about it. His hand abandoned the task, and moved to stroke her cheek.

"My love, what is it?" he pressed, stilling their bodies, eyes locking.

And then he knew.

He knew what was worrying her.

"Oh my darling," he breathed, placing a small kiss against her forehead, her nose and finally her mouth. "You are beautiful, so beautiful."

She frowned. "You haven't seen me, not like this anyway, not here. I'm not like I was before the baby…I still have marks and—"

"You're perfect," he tried again. "You are the mother of my child, and as much as I loved your body before you had our little girl, I'm madly in love with the body that gave life to that little girl."

He saw her uncertainty, her hesitation, yet he knew she believed him, believe he felt that way but somehow he understood that she needed to believe those words for herself, she needed to feel that way about her body. The reluctance in her eyes told him she wasn't quite ready, so he didn't push. Instead he did as she wished, ensured her nightdress kept her stomach covered.

"You're beautiful," he repeated, knowing now he needed to tell her more often.

Sybil's smile was small and crooked, but she offered him a slower, more tender kiss than what they'd been doing, distracting him while her hands tugged at the fabric of his waistband. His concern for her kept his still. He felt awkward and guilty.

Sybil sighed and gave a significantly hard tug, communicating her impatience with him.

Tom made no effort to help her, knowing how capable she was at disrobing him, instead, he focused on disrobing her, accepting her nonverbal insistence that she wanted to continue. Again his hand moved to her, cupping her bottom, forcing her off the bed enough for him to pull her knickers down.

He gave a small yelp as her own hands made contact with the round globes of his behind, squeezing slightly, playfully, her toe sliding further under the fabric of his pants, pushing them down his legs.

He wiggled and kicked, until he was finally naked above her.

"You're over dressed," he smiled, pulling away from her, forcing her legs to drop and fall open before him. He shifted, allowing her knees to come together enough for him to slide her underclothes off.

"Much better," he declared proudly, ignoring Sybil's chuckle.

"You're quite pleased with yourself," she said.

"Not nearly pleased enough Mrs. Branson," he answered kissing his way up her leg, unable to resist the temptation of wetting the skin under her knee and blowing, delighting in her small shriek of protest.

He grunted, caught unaware, when her fingers encircled him, wrapping themselves around his hardened length, a sweet punishment for his behavior.

But it had been too long, he was too ready, he couldn't handle her soft touch against him, and he grabbed her hands pinning them to the pillow as his body again aligned with hers.

Her legs opened; cradling him.

Carefully, his eyes never leaving hers, he pushed into her.

Sybil hissed.

Tom cursed. He should have made sure she was ready.

"It's alright," she assured him again. "Just go slowly."

It was Tom's turn to hesitate, but the look she gave him was in earnest so, still refusing to take his eyes off her face, he continued, sliding only a little further in before he saw his wife's lips press tightly together, and not from pleasure.

He made to pull out but her feet moved to behind his knees, holding him.

"Sybil?" he petitioned, his concern growing.

"Please, just…I think if you can just push all the way in it will feel better," she reasoned.

Tom had his doubts. He suddenly realized she didn't feel very wet.

Unexpectedly she thrust upwards, trying to take as much of his length in as she could.

They both cried out.

"Are you alright?" Tom panted, doing his best to keep control over himself.

Sybil nodded and began undulating beneath him, prompting him to move.

Tom responded, moving as carefully as he could. Sybil gave no sign of discomfort, and the muscles in his neck began to burn, forcing him to drop his head against her neck once again.

She felt so good, his wife, his lover. He began to lose himself in the sensations flowing through him, as he moved within her, his hands clinging tightly to hers.

It nearly caused him to miss the small pinprick of pain. Her hand wasn't just clinging to his, it was clutching, her nails digging into him.

Abruptly he pulled back, catching the look of pain on her face, her eyes screwed shut, lips white and tightly sealed together, before she could hide it.

He didn't hesitate this time. He pulled out of her, scrambling off her body. To his horror he saw a small tear escape down her cheek.

"Sybil, what…" he wasn't even sure what to ask.

She quickly moved to cover herself, sitting up and drawing her knees close to her chest.

She wiped at her face, trying to remove her weakness. "I'm sorry. I'm not sure. I thought, I thought I was ready, but it…it was a little painful, but I'd hoped it would be like our wedding night, and would feel better as we went along, but…" she trailed off.

"Why didn't you say anything?" he demanded, angry, angry to know he had been hurting her, feeling like a cad, a selfish rake.

A wail sounded from across the room, and he cringed, realizing too late that his voice had risen.

Sybil gave him a hard look, before moving to get up.

"Wait," Tom stopped her, a hand on her arm. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound angry…"

"It's fine," Sybil interrupted, shrugging his hand off.

"Just hold on a moment," Tom tried. "Maybe she'll calm down and go back to sleep."

Sybil turned to him, an expectant look on her face.

And suddenly Tom didn't know what to say.

Ignoring the still painful burn between her legs, Sybil slid off the bed and moved to her daughter, grateful for the distraction. She welcomed the upset child into her arms, untying her dress as the baby rooted around for a comfort.

She watched dejectedly, fighting her tears, her baby suckling greedily at her breast, as Tom sheepishly excused himself to the washroom.

It had been a disaster.

A complete and total disaster.

She sniffled, startling the feeding baby, and wiped angrily at her eyes. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Not between them. It had always been so good, so perfect. It was a side of their marriage that had never suffered.

And she had no idea how to fix it.

**To be continued**

**Thanks for reading!**

**More soon. I promise.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Strip**

**By: piperholmes**

**A/N: I am so grateful and touched by the reviews for this story. I admit I feel a little exposed with this story and I feel like I am writing about something very intimate between a couple. Your comments and support has been invaluable, truly. Thank you so much! This chapter breaks away from the format of the previous three, but we are really beginning to move into what I am trying to tell with this particular story. I hope you all enjoy it enough to stick with me. Also, this is obviously AU so there are some S3 elements and some I completely rewrite or expand on. I was disappointed by what we weren't allowed to see on the show, which is where this story originally stemmed from. As usual, not beta'd.**

* * *

_Part 4: but also those desires for you that glowed plainly in the eyes_

When Sybil awoke the next morning, the sun just beginning to clear the horizon, he was gone. They had both been cowards. She had fed and changed the baby, swaddled her to keep her tiny hands from scratching at her face, and hummed a quiet tune until droopy eyes finally closed. Once the baby was back to sleep, Sybil kept her close, crawling into bed and placing the baby between her and where her husband slept. When Tom emerged back into the bedroom Sybil's eyes remained firmly shut, her nose nuzzled into the fine blonde hairs atop her child's head. She felt the bed sink, felt him shift towards them, felt the heat of his body as he leaned over and placed a kiss to their daughter's cheek, but pretended to sleep on while he pretended not to know she was awake. Finally, exhaustion proved too powerful, her need for rest overwhelming her, and she slept.

The mewling, wiggling bundle next to her brought her blurry gaze to the bed. With a pain in her chest, Sybil reached out, feeling the cool bed sheets. He'd been gone a while.

As Sybil leaned forward, lowering her nightdress enough to reveal a swollen breast, offering it to her daughter, she thought for a moment, believing this all to be so new, so unfamiliar, so easy to blame the changes that come from having a new baby.

But this wasn't new Sybil realized. She'd awoken alone before. The days following their exile from Ireland. They'd been here before.

* * *

**Four Months Earlier**

_It was the way she held her youngest son, so tightly, so desperately._

_The tears in her eyes as her children clung to her nightdress, reflecting the dancing orange light. How her hand reached blindly to her husband as the heat consumed them all. _

_And he was sorry._

Tom Branson woke suddenly, his body sweating, shaking.

Out of habit he looked to the other occupant of the bed, and out of necessity he reached for her. His fingers grazed her back, then he allowed his hand to linger, slowing his racing heart to match the even up and down of her breaths.

It was dark, but he knew sleep wouldn't be returning.

He pulled his weary body up, dressed in a pair of trousers and grabbed a coat and silently slipped from the room.

He needed a walk.

* * *

When she awoke he was already dressed for the day.

"You going down?" she asked him with her raspy voice.

She'd startled him.

He recovered quickly. "I suppose. It's what's done isn't it? I'm to go down to breakfast every morning," he said simply, though she heard the accusation.

But she wouldn't apologize. She was still too hurt, too raw, too scared. Her heart ached at the harsh lines of his face, the worry, but she wasn't willing to heal his hurt just yet.

When she gave no reply, he nodded, then moved over to her, placing a gentle kiss into her hair and left without a word.

She knew she was right. She just wished she felt better about it.

* * *

He wasn't ready to face Lord Grantham. He was too tired. He wasn't ready to face his loss of Ireland, nor his gilded cage.

"_We'll make plans."_

What plans? It irked him to believe that Lord Grantham had any say in his life, but he supposed he did now—now that his family was relying on him at the moment.

It ate at him, sat heavy in his belly.

He wasn't ready to accept it.

"If you'll excuse me," he said, standing from the breakfast table, feeling nauseated. Again he headed for the door, craving fresh air and space.

He needed time alone, to grieve.

* * *

He had missed luncheon.

She pretended not to notice, so too did her family.

It wasn't until he walked in during afternoon tea that she was willing to admit to the small lump of worry that had found residence in her chest.

He was reserved as he sipped from his cup, withdrawn, and it hurt to see her family content to accept that. No one spoke to him.

Her own internal conflict beat at her. She longed to reach out, take his hand as they so often did but the baby rolled and instead she stroked her belly.

He soon stood to leave and she felt a moment of panic.

"Where are you going?"

The quiet question surprised her as much as it surprised him.

"No where," he said kindly, giving her weak smile.

Then he was gone.

Everyone avoided looking at her.

"Was no one kind to him?" she found herself asking, little strength in her voice.

She received no response as glances passed between family members.

With gained confidence she pressed, "When he was here alone, without me, you were kind to him right? You treated him like family."

Mary set her cup down. "As kind as we could be my darling."

Sybil closed her eyes. How naive she had been.

* * *

Another strained dinner, another reserved bedtime, another night on separate sides of the bed, another dream, only this time it was his home burning, his wife crying, his child clinging.

Tom's head pounded, sleep providing no relief. Another day would soon be dawning and he was no closer to knowing what to do, how to move forward.

Rising from the bed, he felt his frustration build. He couldn't stay here, not in this room. The solace of darkness called to him and he dressed quietly, grabbing his coat he headed out.

* * *

He was gone when she woke.

No one had seen him at breakfast.

He did not reappear for luncheon.

She kept a calm demeanor, ignoring their pitying glances, when afternoon tea didn't draw him out.

When the dressing gong rang, and still no sign of him, her stomach knotted.

Then he was there, slipping in as they all milled about waiting for dinner. He had not dressed for dinner, the mud on his shoes telling her he'd just returned.

Her immediate relief gave way to anger. "Where were you?" she hissed quietly.

"Around," came his noncommittal answer.

Carson's appearance and subsequent announcement for dinner stalled any further inquiry.

* * *

"I'm taking a tour of the estate tomorrow Tom," Matthew spoke, cutting into a piece of potato. "Would you like to join me?"

Sybil glanced to her husband who was staring blankly at his plate. The hope she had felt at Matthew's offer began to fade as her husband gave no response.

"Tom." She called to him.

Her voice seemed to pull him from his daze and he blinked at her. He realized they were waiting on him for something.

"I'm sorry, what?" he asked.

Matthew tried again. "I said I'm taking a tour of the estate tomorrow and was curious if you would be interested in joining me."

Tom's confusion cleared and he gave a small, "Oh," then answered listlessly, "I appreciate it, but I don't think so."

To her horror she felt tears in her eyes, and a lump form in her throat. Her breathing became labored as she worked calm her emotions. She gripped her knife and fork, willing the storm of emotions to calm.

"Sybil," her mother's voice called, "what is it?"

Sybil could only press her lips together, and shake her head, refusing to give into her sadness, his sadness.

"Sybil?" his soft voice pressed; her husband concerned, tender.

She cleared her throat, ignoring her watery eyes, resenting the gazes that accused her, claiming their silent victories. "Perhaps you should go Tom. Go with Matthew tomorrow," she suggested, her blue eyes locking with his.

His own eyes grew wide, and she could see a glimpse of him before the fire went cold. "I'll go," he quietly agreed, a nod of his head.

She wished she felt happy.

* * *

He said the tour had gone well. He and Matthew had discussed a lot about the estate. But she could tell, she could tell the passionless voice he used. The words were dead in his mouth.

But she was tired. Too tired. Too swollen. Too uncomfortable. Too scared.

Her baby would be born any day now and she felt a familiar helplessness.

* * *

Tom lay awake. He slept in the bed of a princess and couldn't get comfortable. He longed for their lumpy bed in Dublin. He'd had a tiring day, having traveled all around the estate with his brother-in-law. He'd gone because she wanted him to. He knew why, but he also knew it wasn't something he could give. But until the baby was born, until he saw a bit of the panic leaver her eyes, he'd do it, he'd pretend.

He loved her desperately. They would figure this out. They would find a way to make this work.

It just all had to wait until the baby was born.

* * *

He was gone by the time she opened her eyes; a cheerless game of hide and seek. And in that moment of confusion, when sleep world overlapped consciousness, when shadows are monsters, and the movement at the corner of the eye can cause the heart to race, when one is awake enough to recognize the world but asleep enough to paint unfathomable images over reality, she panicked. She thought him gone, truly gone. She sat up suddenly, lumbered to her feet, calling out for him.

This time she had no control over the tears, this time she was raw and vulnerable, soft and warm from sleep.

She realized too late that Anna had entered, concern evident.

"M'lady, what's wrong, what's happened?" Anna pressed, seeming uncertain whether to offer physical comfort, her hands hovering.

"Tom?" Sybil forced out, finding it hard to catch her breath as the baby took up so much room within her. "Have you seen Tom? Do you know where he is?"

"Mr. Branson is downstairs at breakfast m'lady," Anna supplied. "I'll go fetch him."

Her relief was so great she was unable to process the rest of Anna's words, until she found herself alone again in her bedroom clutching tightly to the post of her bed.

She heard him long before she saw him, he was running, she could tell by the pounding. She could hear him calling for her, her name so lyrical from his lips.

Their door burst open, his panic a ripple of her own.

"My darling," he breathed, his hands touching her, feeling her face, her shoulders, pressing against the firm bump between them. "What is it? What's wrong? Is it time? Are you in pain?"

He peppered her with questions, rapidly firing his fears, his worst case scenario.

She suddenly felt foolish.

"I'm alright," she whispered, her voice cracking. She gripped his arms. "I'm sorry it…it was just a nightmare…"

Tom's eyes nearly rolled back into his head from relief. "Come here," he breathed, pulling her into his arms. She had to stand sideways now, for him to hold her, but neither minded as they clutched to each other. "When Anna came…when she said you were crying and…I didn't know…" he faltered, his mind still racing.

Sybil breathed him in, reveling in the closeness. She'd never been the weak one, the delicate female, but for this moment she needed him to hold her up.

"I'm sorry," she tried, her words getting caught, as fresh tears formed.

He quieted her, and just held her.

That day they had stayed close to one another, felt close to one another.

* * *

"I've arranged for Sir Philip Tapsell to come to Downton," Robert announced at dinner that night. "To help with Sybil and the baby."

"Papa?" Sybil asked.

"He's one of the top doctors in the field," Robert explained, trying carefully to avoid indelicate words.

"But I thought Dr. Clarkson would be the one—" Sybil started, only to be interrupted by her father.

"Dr. Clarkson is a perfectly fine physician, but it won't hurt to have the best."

Sybil frowned, her eyes glancing to her husband. She could see his jaw working, clenching. But his expression to her was clear. It was her call.

"Thank you Papa, but I'd prefer Dr. Clarkson."

"My dear be reasonable. Dr. Clarkson has made some mistakes in the past and we can never be too careful. Sir Philip is renowned and prestigious. We can't ignore that. I really think it best," Robert declared, seeming to find the discussion at an end.

Sybil felt her frustration rise, her patience thin. She didn't want a fight. She wanted to be respected, her opinions, wants, and needs listened to and valued. She wilted under the realization that even now, even as a wife and soon to be mother, as a nurse, and a woman who had lived independent of her family for over a year, she still was never to be more than a child.

"I think Sybil knows what's best," Tom suddenly interjected forcefully. "And I trust her, so if she says she wants Dr. Clarkson, she'll have Dr. Clarkson."

"See here," Robert blustered. "I'm only trying to do what's best for my daughter and my grandchild and since I'm the one paying I think I have some say."

Sybil's eyes closed, knowing the humiliation her father had brought.

"But you're not," Tom ground out, causing Sybil's eyes to snap open.

"I beg your pardon?" Robert demanded.

"You're not the one paying for it. I've already spoke to Dr. Clarkson, and made the necessary arrangements," Tom explained, his face blank.

"What kind of arrangements?" Robert pressed, disbelieving.

"Robert," Cora warned.

"That's between Dr. Clarkson and myself, because it's our family and our child," Tom answered. "And the only person who has any say is Sybil."

"Well I already arranged for him to come," Robert insisted.

"Then you can unarranged it," Tom replied sternly, earning a shocked expression from Carson and a raised eyebrow from his grandmother-in-law. He ignored both, as he so often did. Ignored them long enough to pretend it didn't bother him in front of them, long enough to convince them it didn't hurt. Only Sybil knew how it ate at him.

She gave him a small smile, constrained by their surroundings and her upbringing. But she knew he understood, she knew he accepted that their life together was always going to be private and never truly involving the people at this table.

Nothing more was said on the matter.

That night as they got ready for bed Sybil reached for him. She was so large, so cumbersome, and tired. She just needed him. She wordlessly peeled his nightshirt off, baring his beautiful chest. He said nothing as he watched her throw off her own nightdress. She pushed him back into the pillows and followed him down, snuggling her naked body into his. Her large belly pressed against him, their baby moving and kicking. He pulled the blanket up around them and wrapped her in his arms. She felt safe, thankful again to feel his body around hers.

There was still so much to say.

But she wasn't ready.

So instead she offered him a gentle, thankful kiss, slow as it was fleeting, before resting her head against him.

"Tom?" she whispered into the darkness.

"Hmmm?" he answered, and she knew she wasn't the only one effected, knew that this night again in each others arms meant as much to him. She heard the hitch in his breath, felt the catch in his rising and falling chest.

"Have you really spoken to Dr. Clarkson?"

Tom was silent, and she delighted in the feel of his lips against her hair as he kissed again, as he had so many nights before…before they left Ireland.

"Tom?"

"Well, not exactly. I'll talk with him tomorrow."

And she laughed. They laughed.

He slept well, no dreams.

The next morning when she awoke, he was still beside her, draped around her.

* * *

As Sybil gazed down at her feeding child, the memories washing over her, she knew they had allowed too much to go unresolved for too long.

**Thanks for reading!**

**More soon!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Strip**

**By: piperholmes**

**A/N: I am so very grateful for the reviews/comments/messages about this story. They have truly been touching and appreciated (and motivating!). I apologize for the delay between chapters. I meant to post this weeks ago, but I couldn't find the ending to this chapter but for some reason the muse started singing in my ear and I was finally able to finish. As ever, unbeta'd.**

_Part 5:_ _and trembled in the voice—and some chance obstacle made futile._

"Can I ask you something?" Tom started, glancing sidelong to his brother-in-law as they ambled back to the big house from the garage.

Matthew frowned slightly, surprised by the request. "Of course Tom."

"Do you like living here?"

Matthew paused, again caught unaware. Tom stopped as well, turning to face him.

"Do I like living at Downton Abbey?" Matthew asked, seeking clarification.

Tom nodded.

Matthew's gaze dropped to his shoe, watching as he nudged a small rock over, and, as far as Tom could tell, stalling.

Suddenly worried he'd offended one of the few people he called friend, Tom quickly rambled, "Never mind. Stupid question, forget I asked."

Matthew's frown cleared as he waved his hand. "Not at all old chap. I just…I like living with my wife and my wife likes to live at Downton," he finally answered.

Tom smirked. "You're certainly a lawyer."

"What does that mean?" Matthew asked, trying to sound indignant, though the smile playing on his lips undermining his attempts.

"It means: have you ever considered a career in politics?" Tom teased.

Matthew shook his head. "I'll leave that to you."

The Irishman scoffed, before he turned to resume their path to the house.

"What about you?" Matthew asked, falling into step. "You must hate it here."

Tom shrugged. "I don't hate it here," he answered, though his hesitation was clear. "But I don't belong here."

An awkward silence stretched between them as both men retreated within themselves, looking to the hope they had buried and hidden; the idea that they had some control over their lives, their identities not consumed completely by the estate, the family.

"I've…adjusted," Matthew observed. Tom wasn't sure who he was trying to convince.

"Ready to abandon me already?" the young heir joked.

With a small, sad smile Tom simply said, "It's as you say: I like living with my wife, and she wants to live here."

A moment of true understanding passed between the future Earl of Grantham and the outcast Irish socialist.

Matthew clapped him on the shoulder. "Look at the bright side, we have luncheon to look forward to. And something tells me Mrs. Patmore's cooking is a bit more palatable than Cousin Sybil's."

This time Tom laughed outright. "A bit."

"I love my wife desperately, but I cringe to think what horrors she'd perform on a chicken," Matthew joked, causing the friendly laughter to continue.

"I admit I can't see Lady Mary cutting up a raw chicken," Tom added. "But you know Sybil got rather good at cooking some things. I'm not too good in the kitchen either but we worked together and figured it out. Some of my favorite memories…"

Tom trailed off, ending with a sigh before finishing, "Never mind. Doesn't matter now. You go on ahead. There's something I need to do. Will you let them know? I won't be but a moment."

"Of course."

Tom gave a grateful nodded before turning to jog off towards the gardens.

* * *

Sybil slowly pulled the nursery door closed, listening for the soft click before releasing the knob.

"She's asleep," she whispered to the newest maid Edna, offering the girl a thankful smile. "I'll head down now. Just come and get me if she wakes up."

The edict was useless, as this was the routine they'd been enacting for the past two weeks. Mrs. Hughes had allowed Edna to change the routine so she'd be up cleaning the rooms while the baby napped, listening for her, allowing Sybil to join her family for luncheon in the afternoons. As pointless as the instructions were Edna nodded just the same.

"And thank you," Sybil always added.

"Of course m'lady."

As the new mother moved down the grand staircase, her stomach rumbled. She hadn't eaten well that morning, her insides feeling knotted and worried, still upset over what had happened with Tom. She was still feeling confused and uncertain but the drain a feeding baby put on her body demanded she eat.

Her feet dragged as she thought of another meal with her family, another moment of pretending. In this spacious house unhappiness and happiness were treated the same; carefully hidden. How she missed the openness of their tiny flat.

She heard voices and wondered if the words meant anything. So often the conversations centered around the inane or ridiculous; important topics considered taboo. With a resigned sigh she entered the library where everyone was waiting for luncheon to be announced.

Her eyes scanned the room. She couldn't help it. She would always seek him. Her heart dropped when she couldn't find him; a moment of panic and sadness. She had ignored it in the past but this time she wouldn't let them ignore him.

"Tom's to join us, right Papa?"

Lord Grantham glanced up, confused. "I'm sorry?"

Sybil merely raised an eyebrow. "I asked if Tom was to join us for luncheon. You're not keeping him running about and missing luncheon are you?"

The Earl blinked at her, seeming genuinely surprised by her question. His eyes darted around the room, realizing his youngest son-in-law was nowhere to be seen. "I haven't—"

"Tom said he would join us shortly," Matthew interrupted.

"There you go," Robert said, waving off his daughter's concern.

Sybil wasn't sure why she was so upset, but her appetite was quickly dissipating and her desire to flee back to her room growing. She was spared having to comment further as the subject of their discourse entered the room.

All eyes turned to her husband, who hesitated at the door, one arm held firmly behind his back.

"I apologize for my tardiness," he offered sheepishly, sliding into the room awkwardly. She could see his ears pinking as he made his way towards her.

With a small, shy smile he brought his arm around, offering her the tiny bouquet of flowers.

_Tom snuck up behind her. She'd heard him enter their flat but she was busy keeping an eye on the potatoes. She had burned more than a few meals in the month since their marriage, and she was determined to keep the potatoes their creamy beige color rather than black._

_With a surprised gasp she suddenly found a small group of flowers under her nose as his other arm wrapped around her._

"_What's this?" she laughed, leaning back into him, pulling the brightly colored flora into her own hands._

"_Just something beautiful for my something beautiful," he said, wrapping her fully into him. She smiled down into the small bundle of wild flowers. Clearly not from a hothouse, nor did she assume from any florist, but a small batch of carefully picked blooms._

"_They're not diamonds or the latest fancy dres—" _

_Sybil spun around quickly, pressing her lips to his, silencing his vulnerable words. "They're perfect," she told him, pulling slowly away. "Thank you."_

_The smile her husband boasted warmed her heart, filling her to bursting with love for him. It was infectious and beautiful, and she couldn't help but reciprocate. _

_Suddenly her eyes grew wide. "The potatoes!"_

The corners of Sybil's mouth lifted at the memory. She carefully reached out and took the flowers from him, his petition for forgiveness clear on his uncertain face.

With a small, slightly mischievous smile, she whispered, "The potatoes" garnering her an appreciative chuckle from her husband. It was their tradition. There had been no real rhyme or reason to when Tom would surprise her with his hand picked offers of affection, and he could never resist teasing her about her reaction that very first time, her declaration of concern for the roasting vegetable, that it had become an endearment between them.

In the grand library of the grand estate, miles and miles away from their refuge in Ireland, they were reminded for a moment of who they really were as they smiled ridiculously at each other.

It was, of course, short lived.

"Did you pick those from the garden?" Lord Grantham interjected, reminding the couple that they were far from being alone.

Tom stiffened, his smile quickly fading as his eyes dropped to the floor. "I did."

"Well I do hope you spoke with Jonesy before hand," the Earl advised, referencing the kind if temperamental groundskeeper. "It would hate to see a gapping hole amongst the Chrysanthemums."

She watched as her husband withdrew into himself, his cheeks now matching the pink of his ears. "I did. He pointed out the flowers closest to the bottom, which wouldn't go missed."

She watched him swallow, pressing his lips tightly together before turning to her. "Sorry, love, they do look a little starved for sunlight."

"I think they're lovely," she told him, but knew the words couldn't sound true, not now, not after her father's interference.

"And such a lovely gesture," Lady Grantham offered, smiling sweetly at her daughter and son-in-law, ignoring her own husband's eyes rolling heavenward.

Tom nodded his appreciation, but Sybil knew it was gone. She could see him tense under the patronizing as all the women in the room offered smiles of agreement.

Without warning Sybil clenched the flowers tightly to her chest with one hand and grabbed his hand with the other, pulling him towards the door.

"If you'll excuse us, I believe I hear the baby crying. Please give our apologies to Mr. Carson for upsetting the table seating," she threw over her shoulder before quickly dragging her stunned husband out of the room.

**To be continued.**

**Thank you for reading!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Strip**

**By: piperholmes**

**A/N: Thank you so much for sticking with this story. I am truly touched by the comments. Each review pushes me to keep going. One of my favorite quotes comes to mind with this story, from Abraham Lincoln, "**_The dogmas of the quiet past, are inadequate to the stormy present_.**" Tom and Sybil are dealing with several complex and emotional ideas, and there is no Ireland to run away to and the horizon seems a bit less endless. I hope that this chapter communicates some of what they are dealing with, that their love and abilities are truly being tested and they must walk through the refiner's fire. Aren't you glad you clicked on this story? Lol! As usual, unbeta'd.**

* * *

_Part 6: Now that all of them belong to the past, it almost seems as if you had yielded to those desires—_

Tom said nothing as his wife tugged him along behind her. To say he was surprised by this turn of events wouldn't be far from the truth, but he'd learned long ago that a marriage to Lady Sybil Crawley was never going to fit into anything that could be labeled as expected. He also learned, perhaps in what could be described as 'the hard way,' that Sybil was progressive and kind and loving and hardworking but still well engrained with aristocratic habits. It was the way she'd casually thrown away burnt food, how she'd burned candles into the night, the times she'd made a request that sounded more like a command. It had become a challenge for Tom to balance his own upbringing with hers; it had been a challenge for them both. But a year into marriage and they had survived, they had grown through their struggles; which meant that Tom had learned that there were times when he just kept quiet and followed.

His eyebrow rose slightly as they bypassed the nursery, momentarily believing that they were in fact headed to see the baby, he gave a small nod to a confused Edna as she passed by with an armful of sheets, until finally he found himself being pulled into their bedroom, the door shut firmly behind him.

Sybil released his hand, walking around the bed to the vanity, carefully setting down the small bouquet of flowers, her fingers lingering on the smooth purple silk of the petals. She glanced up to him, still standing silent by the door.

"Every morning I awoke to fresh flowers in my room," she started, "Some poor maid's job consisted of ensuring there were never any brown petals or dying leaves. It always had to look perfect and lovely. I've been surrounded by grand bouquets and intricate arrangements my entire life."

She turned to the window, a note of shame in her voice. "I confess I never paid much attention. They were just always there, to be admired occasionally or bickered over by Mama and Granny, but always meant very little to me."

Moving around the bed, Sybil reached for him, her arms stretching out, her hands once again seeking his.

He didn't hesitate, his fingers wrapping around hers, pulling her close. She looked up at him, her blue eyes tired, but still just as youthful as the day he met her, still just as playful and commanding.

"I didn't realize how much I would miss them until we were in Ireland," she told him. "I though how silly I was to finally care about something when it was gone. I loved our flat and Ireland is a beautiful country but there were so many rainy days, days cast in shadow by thick, dark clouds. I missed the beauty of colorful, fragrant flowers."

She leaned into him, her hands giving his a gentle squeeze as she rose up on her toes, allowing her nose to tease his before placing a sweet kiss to his cheek. "And then you walked in one day with the most precious bundle of flowers I'd ever seen, like you'd read my mind and brought me a piece of home." She now moved to wrap her arms around him fully, pressing her cheek against his chest, hugging him tightly.

"But I couldn't tell you then how much that gesture meant to me. We were still so new, so unsure. I didn't know how to talk to you about things that made me miss home. I didn't want you to think I was comparing my two worlds and finding the one we made together lacking. But now, after all we've been through, and having a child, it seems silly that I couldn't tell you. I had to bring you up here to tell you because I couldn't tell you in front of them."

Tom breathed her in, her scent, her warmth, her touch. He couldn't help his fingers sliding into her hair, or the way his lips fell to her head. His connection to her was deeper than any he had ever experienced, and it left him confused and elated. Feelings this strong were difficult to navigate and could overwhelm, but it all felt so comfortable.

"Sybil, I'm sorry," he confessed, refusing to be like them, to hide from the power and chaos of it. "I shouldn't have pressured you last night."

His wife pulled back, her cheeks flushed. "Oh, Tom, you didn't pressure me. I…well, I'm not sure what to say. I love being your wife in every way."

The Irishman offered her a smile, her meaning clear, as one impossibly soft finger came up to trace the curve of his cheek before gently indicating for him to lower, allowing her lips to meet his.

Her hand slid lower, her palm resting against his heart as she deepened the kiss. Tom lost himself in the sensations; her lips soft yet demanding, her tongue darting out to meet his, teasing but purposeful.

He jerked back slightly, a hiss of surprise escaping against the pink of her lips when he felt her fingers work their way down his taunt stomach and lower still to gently cup him through his trousers.

Tom's forehead dropped to hers, his eyes closed in pleasure when her soft hand began slowly rubbing up and down.

"Sybil," he moaned, trying to simultaneously warn her to stop and beg her to continue.

"Shh," she calmed him, rubbing her nose against his.

His breath quickened as she increased the pressure against him, her grip tightening.

He stood still; afraid to open his eyes, to lose this moment with her.

She peppered his face with light, playful kisses as her fingers worked to undo the buttons on his trousers. "This is you and me," she whispered.

He couldn't help his fingers clenching her hair as she slipped her hand into his pants. Her lips now lingered close to his ear, pulling the lobe between her teeth, biting down before gently sucking the pain away.

A heady groan escaped as she freed him, semi-hard and eager. Her hand began working him, stroking, petting, entreating.

Through the haze of pleasure, the sound of a door shutting loudly, reached him. It had mostly likely been the maid. He'd forgotten they weren't alone, surprised by that since it felt they were never alone. That's all he needed; the maid telling Mrs. Hughes what she heard coming from the Bransons' room. And knowing Mr. Carson he'd demand to know what is going on and the scandalized butler would go to Lord Grantham and complain about Lady Sybil and her disgracefully common husband. Everyone would know their business because that's what they did. They lived in a fishbowl, with eyes always peering in, judging, and sneering. They were probably down there right now, talking about them, about their noticeable absence from the table, talking about how poor Sybil was stuck with her choice of husband, as they dined on the finest cuisine which cost more than most families could budget for food in an entire year.

"Tom?" her soft voice pulled him back, reaching through his darkness as she so often did.

He blinked at her, her confused almost hurt face staring up at him, her hand frozen, unmoving, as he'd grown limp. "Where did you go?"

With a sigh Tom's hand fell from her hair, to take her hands into his, drawing them to his lips and placing a kiss against both palms before dropping them so he could awkwardly tuck himself back into his pants and buttoning his trousers.

His cheeks and skin on the back of his neck burned pink, his embarrassment at his failure to respond to her gripping him, choking him, making it impossible to endure her pitying, loving gaze.

He battled to know what to say, his eyes glued to the floor as his hand ran through his blond hair, loosening the carefully combed coif, making him look younger, wilder.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, not sure if there was anything else he could say. "I don't know…I'm just tired…"

"Because you don't sleep," she said, her voice quiet.

He glanced up at her, surprised by her observation.

"You think I didn't notice?" she accused, her blue eyes flashing. "You think I don't see how you toss and turn? How you're up early?"

He shrugged. "I guess I was hoping you weren't disturbed. You don't sleep much either."

She sighed. "Neither of us sleep well these days." It should have been a moment where they both rolled their eyes at each other as they blamed the baby for sleepless nights. It should have been swapping war stories of being up late, walking the floor, arms growing tired and weak from the constant bouncing and swaying. It was true, they did have those stories to tell, but they were beginning to admit that it ran deeper.

"Take off your shoes and coat," she commanded.

His eyebrows lowered in confusion. "Sybil—"

"Do it," she shot back, not the least bit sorry for her imperious manner. "I'll be back."

Sybil dashed from the room and Tom did as he was told, working to unlace his shoes and hang his coat. She found him standing by the window in his stocking feet when she returned. She sat on the bed, her legs stretched out.

"Help me with my shoes?" she requested, her tone sweet.

Obediently he knelt, his long fingers slowly releasing the laces from the intricate knots. When he was done he carefully pulled each shoe off, setting them by the bed.

Sybil rolled over, drawing her feet under her skirt, as she snuggled into the pillow, heedless of the neat folding and tucking the maid had done earlier. She reached one hand out to him, letting her hand hang in the air expectantly.

Tom took it, but resisted the accompanying tug.

"Tom," Sybil chastised, elongating the syllables of his name, much as a petulant child might.

Still feeling embarrassed, vulnerable, Tom wasn't willing to play along. "Sybil, I don't know what you want from me."

With an exasperated sigh she sat up. "You're tired. I'm tired. So we're taking a nap."

Tom scoffed. "I can't just take a nap in the middle of the day. You're father—"

"My father can jolly well wait today," Sybil interrupted sharply. Her eyes held a resolve Tom hadn't seen since she'd told him that he must allow the baby to be born at Downton. But then her lips relaxed, her lashes lowered a bit, it was the Sybil who loved only him. "Besides, I've taken care of everything."

Still he hesitated. "The baby?"

"Please Tom. Please trust me," her voice had grown soft, uncertain. Her arm again extended to him. It seemed such a small thing; to take her hand and curl up next to her in the bed, but simple wasn't them any more. Their days of newly wedded bliss were far behind them, and he felt the weight of this moment.

He slid his hand into hers.

He pretended not to see the relief on her face, unwilling to recognize the anxiety that had been there just seconds before. He was overwhelmed by the power he held over her, and ever mindful of the power she had over him.

She brought him to lie down next to her, then crawled nearly on top of him. The silence stretched between them but Tom's eyes were no closer to falling closed, and he could tell by Sybil's stiff body, she wasn't finding sleep any quicker than he.

Over and over he replayed the shame of not being able to perform.

"We're not giving up," Sybil declared suddenly, pulling him from his thoughts.

"Tell me," she demanded, lifting her head to stare at him directly.

"We're not giving up," he repeated, returning her intensity.

"Talk to me, please," she requested, her voice husky.

"I don't want a fight," Tom answered wearily.

She frowned, wanted to argue the point, but knew he was right. It was a fight. It was always a fight now. But somewhere between the burning of a house and the surrender of their freedom they'd lost the will to fight.

Sybil knew, now more than ever, if they were going to survive this exile, they were going to have to find the strength to conquer.

"Then just talk," she answered. "Talk me to sleep, like you use to. Talk until your voice goes quiet and your words run together. Tell me your secrets Tom Branson."

His heart broke, pain ripping through him, pulsing through his veins. He looked away from her, afraid of the words that would tumble from his lips. "I don't know if I can," he admitted.

He'd expected her anger, her hurt, her condemnation at his declaration, but her tender touch against his cheek caught him unprepared. She moved up his body, bringing her nose to rest against his, now burrowing into him.

"I understand," she whispered, her breath hot on his cheek. "I don't know what I can say to you sometimes either. But we are going to have to talk about what happened that day Tom."

His eyes closed in shame, her voice draping over him as she continued. "We can't keep ignoring it. We can't keep pretending. It's killing us, because that's not who we are."

"I'm afraid," he admitted. "I'm afraid that if we face it, you'll not want to be with me anymore. You'll realized what they say is true."

"You think me so weak Tom Branson?" her words, an echo of the past. "I don't know what's going to happen, but we can't keep going on like this. _I_ can't keep going on like this."

Her fingers moved to stroke his cheek. "We are not cowards, you and I. I believe we'll survive, that we're strong enough. That you and I are enough. But I can't carry us on my own."

The memories from that day hammered through him, still so raw and angry and destructive. And he knew she was right. They were going to have to face it.

* * *

**Thank you for reading!**

**More to come as Tom and Sybil really start being honest!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Stripped**

**By: piperholmes**

**A/N: Thank you again for the reviews! Sorry of the long delay between chapters. I'm grateful people are willing to stick with me on this story. I'm just exploring different aspects of the struggles I see that would arise with Tom and Sybil being stranded at Downton and how that would affect their relationship. This chapter is another flashback, but I think gives a little more insight into where both Tom and Sybil are coming from. You guys know the drill: unbeta'd. Also, I've been dealing with pain and pain meds so I apologize if this is a bit rambly or chaotic. I would really like to be asleep right now but it's not in the cards for me. So I took the chance to finish this chapter. **

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_Part 7: how they glowed, remember, in the eyes gazing at you  
_

Tom gazed up at the ceiling, now too familiar to him. He remembered that first night at Downton, feeling so uncomfortable, so unwanted, sleeping in her bed, upstairs, with the Earl and Countess down the hall. It had seemed so big, and now it was the routine.

Sybil shifted against him, breathing deeply as she sank further into sleep. Tom was glad to see her rest, but envied her slip into oblivion. For him the memories were too loud.

_His feet ached, his shoes wearing thin, heavy with mud. The late afternoon sun beat down on him, the rim of his hat soaked through, droplets of sweat rolling down his neck to into the collar of his shirt._

_The rocks crunched under his feet as he made his way towards the abbey, moving to walk a path he'd traveled many times before. His legs wearily pushed him forward towards the servant's entrance. He'd risen long before the sun, knowing how long it would take to walk to his destination, and unwilling to ask for use of the Earl's car,nor for the funds to take the bus. He'd been raised poor. He knew walking cost him nothing. Yet he felt drained._

_It hadn't gone well._

_He hadn't really expected it to, but still he'd hoped. _

_Defeated, he pushed the door open, ignoring the hustle of servants working to get dinner prepared. His stomach growled; the apple he'd snagged that morning having long since been eaten._

"_Mr. Branson?" Mrs. Hughes called, still surprised by his presence. "Thank heavens."_

_Tom blinked at her, caught by the relief in her voice. "Mrs. Hughes?"_

_The older woman frowned at him, her eyebrow raised, her lips pressed tightly together. "You'd best go upstairs m'lad."_

_Tom felt panic in his chest, his own fatigue immediately forgotten. "Sybil? The baby?"_

_Mrs. Hughes shook her head, taking pity on him. "Lady Sybil is fine, or at least I'm sure she will be now that her husband has turned up."_

_Tom's eyes lowered, and with a nod he obeyed._

_As he exited the stairs, he came face to face with the butler. _

_The scowl on the older man's face brought Tom up short, though it was gone nearly as soon as he saw it._

"_You're needed in the library...sir," Mr. Carson ground out. _

_Tom nodded, his emotions swirling about, mixing and stirring, causing a heavy weight to settle in his stomach, pushing out the hunger._

_He knew he looked rough, dusty and travel worn, dashing his hat from his head, cringing to think of the sweaty mess underneath, but he quickly made his way to the library, his concern for his wife and child predominate in his mind as he followed his former colleague into the library._

"_Mr. Branson," Carson's voice boomed, announcing Tom's arrival._

"_Tom!" Sybil's voice called out as he made his way around the butler._

_She scrambled to pull herself up from the seat, her swollen belly forcing her to slide forward and try to push off with her hands._

_Tom moved quickly, reaching out to her, cupping her elbow and helping her stand. Her hands gripped his upper arms, holding tightly, taking him in._

"_You're alright?" she breathed, her eyes darting over him._

_His eyebrow lowered in shame and guilt. "Yes."_

"_There, you see?" Lord Grantham said as he stood, pushing away from his desk. "I told you he was fine. All the worry for nothing." _

_Matthew glanced from his father-in-law to his brother-in-law, his eyes communicating how little he thought of Robert's tone. "We were worried Tom. No one knew where you were, and Sybil was quite concerned. We were about to call the police, convinced you'd had some kind of accident."_

"_I'm sorry for the concern. I'm quite well I assure you." Embarrassment snap at him, his words met with silence._

"_Well then," Lord Grantham said, breaking the uncomfortable stand-off. "Now that's settled, shall we finally dressed for dinner? Carson it appears we will not have to push dinner back."_

"_Very good m'lord."_

_The Earl spared Tom no more than a cursory nod before leaving, the butler close behind._

_Tom looked to Matthew, meeting the concerned and confused man's gaze. The Irishman realized the concern was truly for him._

"_I'll leave you two," Matthew finally said. "Glad you're safe Tom." And he too left._

_Tom turned to his wife, who still held so tightly to him._

"_Where were you?" she asked softly._

"_I'm sorry," he gave by way of answer. "I didn't mean for you to worry. I had hoped to be back by afternoon tea-"_

"_Where were you?" she asked again, her hands lowering as she stepped away._

_Tom wasn't ready to admit to his humiliation. "It doesn't matter now-"_

_Sybil suddenly turned from him, barrelling towards the door._

"_Sybil," he called, resisting the urge to simply let her go._

_She gave no answer as she moved to the staircase._

_He hurried to catch up with her. "Sybil, I'm sorry I made you worry. I just...I just needed to find out something. I didn't mean to cause problems. I'm just not use to having my every move observed and commented on. I didn't think to give Carson or your father a full accounting of my day."_

_Sybil scoffed, stopping to turn to him._

"_You go about as if you're the only one hurting," she accused, the anger in her flaming. "But you're not."_

_She stalked up the stairs, leaving him to follow...or not. It was his choice, and she wouldn't look back at him, she wouldn't beg. The baby kicked and pushed, making her back ache and her patience thin. She needed a lie down and sought for the solace of their bedroom. _

_He caught the door before she could shut him out, his face stern._

"_You were the one who insisted we stay here," he shot at her, the door closing loudly behind him, his own anger being sparked by the heat flying from her._

"_Yes, for our child's sake, for our family's sake," she barked back, her voice rising._

"_Right, because of the safety and peace Downton offers," he mocked. "What peace Sybil? I hate it here. You hate it here. Or have you forgotten how ready you were for a new life? How eager you were to get away from here? Was it not what you thought it would be? Was is so hard that you're ready to return to this life of dressing for dinner, and tea parties, and privilege?"_

"_How dare you!" Sybil erupted. "How dare you stand there and belittle me, and our life together. I loved my life in Dublin. I loved our life there. I don't want to be here anymore than you do. Yet you go about acting like I'm the enemy. I didn't burn that house Tom. I didn't bring us here. You did. You did that. I don't deserve your anger."_

_It was a if she'd slapped him, the sting of her words turning the skin of his cheeks pink. "Don't act like you didn't know what you were getting into," he ground out._

_Sybil let out an angry gust of air. "How can you say that to me?" she demanded. "I don't blame you for fighting for Ireland Tom. I married you with open eyes. I love you because of the man you are and how strongly you believe in fighting for what's right. I haven't broken any vow to you. But you? You accuse me of knowing what I was getting into when you were lying to me."_

_Tom faltered, embarrassment causing his defenses to rise. "I wanted to protect you."_

"_You lied to me!" she cried._

"_It's not that simple," Tom answered back. "I didn't tell you about those meetings because the fewer who knew the safer it was. The less you knew about what we were doing the safer I could keep you."_

_Sybil scoffed. "So which is it Tom? I came into this knowing what was expected and could be trusted to be my own woman or I was kept ignorant to be kept safe and coddled by you. You can't have it both ways. And you don't want it both ways. You didn't keep it from me to keep me safe. We'd been through too much together. You showed me time and time again that you trusted me as my own person. You've never sought to hide the truth from me in order to protect me. That's not how we are, we've never been like that. You promised me we'd never be that way."_

_Tom made to interrupt but Sybil refused him. _

"_No. I don't want to hear it. You didn't tell me about those meetings because you knew I would tell you what you didn't want to hear."_

_Tom turned from her. "Think what you want Sybil, you're clearly not interested in hearing anything I have to say."_

_He moved for the door, made so far as to turn the knob and pull it open before she dashed around him, slamming it shut again._

"_Hurts doesn't it?" she charged, her face close to his. "Hurts when your partner isn't interested in including you or hearing from you."_

_Tom refused to look at her but made no move._

"_You didn't tell me about those meetings because you knew I would tell you that it wasn't you. That burning a house down wasn't the kind of person are. You don't want to hurt people Tom. You've never wanted to hurt anyone. I would have told you that there are other ways to fight. That these violent tactics would destroy you." Her voice had grown softer, her anger simmering. _

_She reached out, taking his chin with her soft fingers, forcing him to look at her. "But you didn't want to hear that because you knew I would be right. And for some reason you have it in your head that it makes you weak."_

_He winced. It was overwhelming. _

_"I am weak," he whispered, his voice breaking as defeat washed over him. "I've failed."_

_He stood before her, broken and shamed. His will to fight drowning in the tears of his eyes. Sybil felt the broken parts of her heart reach for his. _

_His words stumbled over each other as his careful hold faltered. "I've lost us everything. I've lost Ireland...our home...our freedom. I've robbed you of that life...my darling, I'm so sorry." He slipped, further and further into himself, his tears wet and messy on his cheeks. His hands reached for her, even as his eyes stared firmly at the floor. "I've failed you."_

_And in that moment Sybil knew what it meant to have a mother's love for someone. As her belly grew, her skin stretched, and the baby pressed and moved, she had begun to experience an inkling of what unconditional love was, but as she watched her dearest and closest friend, her lover, and husband, reach his lowest point, she felt what it meant. Somehow, along the way, when she hadn't been paying attention, when her life was busy and messy, her love for him had matured. Her own pain burned in her, broke her heart and left her sad, confused, shattered and lost, even angry, but it all became bearable in the face of his own. She loved him beyond herself._

_She had wanted to hurt him, the way he'd hurt her. The last few weeks she had withdrawn from him, withheld herself in small ways, in the ways that had always meant so much to him, to them. And watching him now, she knew she'd succeeded. But there was no satisfaction, no relief. His humiliation was hers. _

_She was humbled, realizing his only saving grace was her forgiveness and her repentance._

_It was no small feat; to swallow her pride, her righteous indignation, to put his feelings above her own. But Sybil lived her life in big accomplishments; and for this man, for her family, she would stretch further than she thought possible._

_She felt so very tired, so very incapable, but there was strength in them, a reserve of depths they were only beginning to understand and realize. _

"_Where were you today?" she asked again, now ready for the answer._

_She saw him wince, watched as a tear rolled off the tip of his nose from where his head hung._

"_Tom, my love, where were you?"_

_He glanced up at the endearment, caught by the change in her eyes._

"_I…" he swallowed, then cleared his throat, trying to regain control. "I walked to Newburgh Priory."_

"_What? Good heavens Tom that's nearly to Thirsk!" Sybil could only stare at him._

_He shrugged, knowing what she would ask next._

"_Why Tom? Whatever could have made you walk that far?"_

_He shook his head, his arms raised in surrender. "They are looking for a chauffeur."_

_His admission was quiet, steeped in rejection, cutting Sybil. "Oh Tom."_

_Her own anger now fully deflated, she reached for him but he refused her comfort, pulling away._

"_I don't know what to do," he confessed. "I wake up here, and I don't know what I'm suppose to do with myself. The baby will come any day now and I have nothing to give. I have no job, no purpose, no country. I'm living off your father's charity...I have nothing to give."_

"_And you thought you would find something as Sir George Wombwell's chauffeur?" Sybil pressed, understanding his desperation but wanting him to see there was no success in it. She grabbed his hands, forcing him to feel her. "We will move forward from this Tom."_

"_It doesn't matter. I didn't get the position. Turns out news of our marriage spread a bit further than I imagined."_

_She stared at him, her thought too jumbled and frantic._

"_You've no need to look at me so. I wouldn't have forced you to live in a chauffeur's cottage. I realized I could never take you to live there. I just needed something to feel hopeful about."_

_Sybil ignored his comment about the chauffeur's cottage, picking her battles. "I understand Tom. I understand the need to work. Please stop acting as if I'm the enemy. I need you here with me right now. We will figure this out, but please, let us be a family. Let my family be your family. Even if only for a few more weeks. I know what it is costing you, what it is costing up both. You have to know I wouldn't ask this if I didn't need it."_

_Tom held her gaze, two lost people anchoring to each other. "Please, no more disappearing. Please talk to me, share your plans with me. Together we are strong, we can withstand this, all of this. But apart we flounder, and we owe it to this child to be our best, to be our strongest."_

_Her hand moved to his cheek. "I give you my forgiveness Tom."_

_Tom's face crumpled just before he buried his face in her neck, sobbing out the cancer of doubt and fear._

_Sybil felt her own cheeks grow wet as she held him, her fingers stroking his hair. "You must forgive yourself," she whispered to him._

Tom's fingers now stroked her hair, mimicking her actions months previous. They'd not joined the family for dinner that night. Choosing instead to shut the world out and to discuss the difficult things, to weed through weeks of rejection and displacement, finally giving Sybil the peace she so desperately longed for, the safety she sought to bring her child into the world. Tom had felt more calm and focused, less afraid. The baby had come three days later, welcomed by two eager parents.

But still Sybil's words haunted him.

"_You must forgive yourself." _

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**Thanks for reading!  
**

**More to come. **


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